


same as it ever was

by ajkal2



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Biphobia (mentioned), Dress Code, Gen, Gender Identity, Gender Issues, Genderfluid, High Heels, Makeup, Nonbinary Character, Sexism, Trans Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Trans Male Character, Trans Martin Blackwood, internalized nbphobia, its ok by the end dw, jon has a gender and they dont know what to do with it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-08
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-13 21:46:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29285499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ajkal2/pseuds/ajkal2
Summary: It’s a nice dress. Classy, if also a little risqué. Set off against dark skin, it looks very good. It would probably work on Jon, actually. He wonders where she got it. Then he remembers he’s at work, and abruptly derails that train of thought.-The women of the Magnus Institute are holding a protest against the sexist dress code of their place of work. Jon is conflicted, and also has a gender for some reason. What's up with that?
Comments: 34
Kudos: 184





	same as it ever was

**Author's Note:**

> the title is from Once In A Lifetime by The Talking Heads! big song rec, i relate to it a lot tbh. 
> 
> three cheers for the wonderful betas who volunteered to give this a look over and make sure i wasn't making a fool of myself! Hecate, Oran, Tate, A, and Solace, thank you so much. 
> 
> i've been working on this one for a long time, and it's great to finally post it. hope you enjoy!

The email blinks up from Jon’s screen. One Amanda O’Reilly, a Library assistant, was told last Thursday that her footwear and dress was inappropriate. She was sent home to change. The mandate came from Elias Bouchard himself, though Jon can hardly see why the Head of the Institute would involve himself in a matter of _dress code_. There’s a photo attached, a selfie clearly taken in one of the Institute’s bathrooms, showing a Black woman in a bright yellow dress and matching chunky heels.

It’s a nice dress. Classy, if also a little risqué. Set off against dark skin, it looks very good. It would probably work on Jon, actually. He wonders where she got it. Then he remembers he’s at work, and abruptly derails that train of thought.

The _point_ of the email is organising a protest. On Friday, Amanda is proposing that the women of the Institute wear high heels, and a dress of some sort, to demonstrate that what they wear has no impact on the efficacy of their work. There is no mention of what the men of the Institute should do, even though they make up the larger proportion of the workforce.

Jon clicks the next email in his inbox. He’s not a woman anymore, so he guesses there isn’t much he can do to help. He’ll try and remember to compliment anyone he sees wearing heels this Friday. That should show support. 

He’s reminded of the protest a couple of hours later. “It’s so hard to find heels in my size,” Tim complains loudly as Jon walks past the assistant’s desks. He swings his foot onto Sasha’s desk. His socks are striped in purple, pink, and blue. “Sash, look at these. Look at them. Gigantic.”

Sasha gives Tim a _look,_ over her glasses. “Your feet fucking stink, Stoker,” she says neutrally.

Tim wiggles his eyebrows. “Just how you like them, James.”

Sasha wrinkles her nose. “First of all, ew,” she says. She doesn’t continue.

Jon hovers, empty mug clutched in his hands. “Any work going on in here?” he asks, trying to be wry, but it comes out flat. Martin, eyes locked on his monitor in the corner, winces.

“Boss!” Tim says cheerfully. “Do you know any shoe shops that do heels in big sizes?”

Martin squeaks “ _Tim!”_ His face is bright red.

Jon ignores him. “I can’t say I do,” he says. “Is there any reason you’re looking this up instead of following up with the Woodward statement?”

“There’s a protest on Friday, because dress codes are sexist and wrong. Everyone in heels.” Tim says, pulling his foot off Sasha’s desk. “I want to go all out, but there are _zero_ places that do heels in my size.”

“Perhaps you should continue your search after five,” Jon tells him.

“Sir, yes sir,” Tim says, saluting. “I’ll get right on that creepy bag of teeth, yes sir I will.”

Jon narrows his eyes at Tim. “Hm,” he says. Then he goes and puts his mug in the dishwasher. By the time he passes the desks again, on his way back to his office, they’ve quietened down a bit. 

A few more hours of work later, Martin appears at the door, wringing his hands.

“What?” Jon asks flatly.

“Um,” Martin says, and Jon pushes down the urge to roll his eyes. “I was just- About what Tim was saying, he’s suggesting we all, um, dress up a bit, and- I wanted to make sure that was-“

Jon gives in to the urge. “I don’t give a toss what you wear, as long as you get your work done,” he tells Martin curtly. “How’s the background for the Gillespie statement coming along?”

Martin flushes, again. “I’m still, uh, still following up on-“

Jon gives Martin a _look_. He’s practiced his _looks._ They are very effective.

Martin flushes even redder, trailing off. Jon didn’t really know it was possible for a human face to be that red. When Jon isn’t looking at him, Martin’s skin is a normal shade. Not red. He has freckles. They’re not visible now, because he’s blushing too hard.

“I’ll, um, just…” Martin says, trailing off, his hand twitching towards the door handle.

“Yes, thank you, go away,” Jon says, jerking his head toward the door, and Martin scurries off.

Jon finishes up. He records a statement on his laptop, one about rattling pipes. The next one, the Swain statement, is about a Leitner. His hand hovers over the file, but then he realises it’s past seven. He leaves the file where it is, and picks up his coat instead. 

There’s an advert on the Tube, some real estate thing, but it catches Jon’s eye because the woman posing next to a Sold sign is wearing a yellow dress. The same colour as the one that got Amanda O’Reilly sent home. Jon frowns, and looks away. 

He gets home, gets settled in front of the telly, but he can’t focus. The whole situation’s still whirling around his head. He chews his lip, and texts Georgie.

 _My coworker is looking for a pair of high heels in a large size,_ he types. _Do you have any shop recommendations?_

After five minutes, he gives in to himself and adds _Also, how fares the Admiral?_

Then he turns his phone facedown, and watches last week’s Panorama. This week the report’s on rising train fares. Normally he gets into it, wants to know the full story, but he still can’t focus. He sighs, and turns it off, and goes to get ready for bed. 

As he’s brushing his teeth, his phone buzzes. He reaches for it.

The first message is a photo. The Admiral sprawls out in his orange-furred grandeur, one paw outstretched toward a brightly coloured mouse toy. Jon’s eyes crinkle on seeing it. The caption reads: _cat update: still stupid lmao_.

The second message is a link to an online shop, with the caption _these are a lil expensive but should do what ‘ur coworker’ wants ;)_

Jon spits into the sink, rinses off his toothbrush. He forwards the link to Tim without bothering to add a caption, and flops onto his bed. 

_It’s not for me,_ he types out to Georgie. _I don’t do that anymore. Some people at work are dressing up to protest the dress code._

Her typing indicator appears. It stays there for a minute or two, then disappears. Then it comes back again, and Jon leaves his phone on the bed, slipping under the covers. It buzzes, and he picks it up, but it’s just a row of heart-eye emojis from Tim.

 _wdym?_ Georgie sends, after five full minutes.

Jon has to google the acronym. "What do you mean," apparently. It doesn’t help him understand why she couldn’t just type that out.

 _The dress code at the Institute prohibits shoes above a certain elevation, for some reason._ Jon sends.

 _no, wydm you ‘don’t do that anymore’? y the hell not?_ Georgie replies, quicker this time.

Jon frowns. They’re not at uni anymore. _I have to be professional now. I can’t just do whatever I want._

Georgie’s typing indicator pops up again, then disappears. Jon rolls his eyes, picking up his latest book. He’s only just found his place when his phone buzzes.

 _fuck that,_ Georgie’s sent. _the gender binary can go die in a hole. join the protest!_

Jon’s thumbs hover over the keyboard. _I’m not out at work,_ he types out, then backspaces over it. _The gender binary is for stupid people but unfortunately most of society is made up of stupid people,_ he types, and then deletes that too, frustrated. The empty message box stares up at him, cursor blinking.

 _I don’t have any heels,_ he sends.

 _that’s easy to fix,_ Georgie sends back almost immediately, along with a shopping bag emoji, a clothes emoji, a sparkling heart, and a winking face.

Jon stares at the message for long enough that the screen goes dark. He shifts, rolling onto his side, curling his knees up. Lost in thought. 

The screen wakes up, buzzing with another notification from Georgie. _come over, we can shop together?_ it says.

Jon unlocks his phone, but another message comes in before he can reply. It’s a photo of the Admiral, looking at the camera, his pupils wide. _he misses u,_ the caption reads.

Jon looks at the photo. His heart melts. _Tomorrow after work?_ he sends.

Georgie sends a thumbs up emoji and a smiling cat face. _see u then!_

Jon puts his phone back onto his bedside table. He picks up his book, but finds it hard to focus, starting the same paragraph again and again before giving up.

He stares at the ceiling. It’s cold. Outside, London thrums, the constant hum of people and cars and sirens. The streetlight outside his window outlines his curtains, drawing a thin orange ray across his ceiling.

He’s not out at work. He doesn’t tend to- He’s not very close to his coworkers. His assistants.

He used to be fairly close to Tim, back in Research. Jon had asked for him, as an assistant, because Tim was the least offensive of the options presented. He works hard. He’s friendly. Good with people.

Tim and Sasha came as a package deal, of course, and Sasha is amazingly competent. Qualified. More so than Jon. He isn’t sure how to- what the etiquette is, in this kind of situation. She should have his position. It makes him awkward around her, around all of them. Snappish, and mean, and- He doesn’t like to think about it, that’s all. 

Then there’s Martin.

Jon scowls upward. Martin _never_ gets his reports in on time, and when he does they’re- _sloppy,_ leaving obvious gaps, the _formatting_ is wrong, it’s all- Jon has no idea why Elias forced _Martin_ onto the team. He doesn’t _need_ three assistants.

Also, Martin blushes too much. It’s probably not very good for him, to be that _red_ so often. Whenever Jon so much as looks at him, Martin goes scarlet.

Perhaps Jon should look at him a bit less often.

Jon rolls his eyes, dismissing the thought. He flips over his pillow, squashing it up against his headboard to get the perfect height, and closes his eyes.

The next day, as soon as Jon opens his eyes he knows. They know.

It’s a _they_ day today. In Jon’s head. It can’t be a _they day_ outside of Jon’s head, because it’s also a Tuesday, and they have to go to work. Jon scowls to themself. It’s- annoying, that they haven’t grown out of this, that they have to go into work and feel like everyone is looking at them wrong, and-

Jon forces themselves out of the spiral. They sit up in bed, and then stand up, then they look at their clothes, and their mood comes crashing down again.

Jon ends up in something, a shirt of some sort, a jacket, slacks. Professional. Good enough for work. _Wrong_. But they don’t know what would be _right,_ right now, just that it’s _not this._

Well, no, it’s not that they don’t _know._ They have some idea of what they could be wearing, what would make them feel better, but. That’s not- they’re not _out._ They can’t just do whatever, anymore, they have _responsibilities,_ and they have to be _professional,_ and-

Jon _hates_ days like this. 

They’re snappish at work, even more than normal. Martin goes pale and drawn early on and stays that way. Tim tries to break the tension, loudly planning his outfit for Friday, but that just gets Jon’s hackles up _more._ Sasha snaps back, a little, letting her sharply sardonic eyebrow make points for her.

By the time five o’ clock rolls around, Jon is wound up enough to stalk right out of the office, barely grunting at Tim’s “Bye boss!”

They ride the Tube back to their apartment, skin crawling, and flop onto the sofa.

Their phone buzzes.

It’s a picture of the Admiral, sitting on Georgie’s windowsill, looking out over the street. _waiting to see his fav person,_ the caption says, with a heart.

Jon smushes their head into the sofa cushion.

They look at the photo again. The Admiral’s eyes are shut, bright sunlight from outside catching in his fur.

They groan, levering themselves off the sofa.

Georgie’s flat isn’t far, at least. The bus is half-full when he gets on, but it fills up, enough that someone sits next to them _._ A student, probably, all in black, colourful patches, the kind of thing Jon used to wear, back when they could. They spot the lesbian flag, and the nonbinary flag, and- Jon looks away.

They don’t know what happened to all their old patches. Might be in the back of the closet. No worth the time to look, really.

When the recorded voice calls out Jon’s stop, they pull themself to their feet, thumbing the STOP button. The student stands up, letting Jon out with a nod. They clatter down the steps and out of the doors.

It’s raining, and cold, and miserable. Georgie’s doorbell has a little ghost sticker next to her name. They press the button. “Hey,” Georgie’s voice says, crackling through the speaker.

“It’s me,” Jon replies, and the lock buzzes, letting them up. They take the stairs, up and up, and knock on Georgie’s door.

She opens it immediately, beaming. “Hey there, stranger!” she says cheerfully, “Jesus, haven’t seen you in _months.”_

Jon gives her a smile. It’s probably not a good one. “Hey Georgie,” they say.

Georgie looks them up and down, assessing. “What type of day is it today?” she asks, head tipping to one side.

Jon’s throat closes up. No one’s asked, no one’s _known_ to ask, in. In a long time. They cough, clearing their throat. “They,” they say.

Georgie nods. “C’mon. I have a cat who needs cuddles.” She steps aside, holding the door open.

Jon steps inside. The flat is small, but colourful. There are throws draped across the sofa, mismatched cushions on every chair.

There’s a sharp _meow,_ and The Admiral trots into the room, making a beeline for Jon’s legs. Jon folds down, letting him rub against their hands. “Hello, darling,” they say softly. “I missed you too.”

“I see how it is,” Georgie calls over her shoulder, heading for the tiny kitchen. “The cat gets _darling_. Tea?”

Jon hooks a hand under the Admiral’s front legs, lifting him to their chest. “Decaf, if you have it,” they tell Georgie. The Admiral sprawls over their shoulder, purring very loudly, and Jon juggles him back into their arms, heading over to the sofa.

Georgie’s kettle clicks on, humming gentle background noises as Jon settles into the sofa. It’s very squashy. The Admiral rubs his face against Jon's cheek, and they turn their head into his fur.

“Here you go,” Georgie says as she walks back in, setting a huge Sports Direct mug down on her low coffee table. The other one she’s holding is almost a sphere, clearly hand-glazed, and bright yellow. “Now. How are you?”

Jon lets the Admiral slide down into their lap. “Fine,” they say. “I- well, I got promoted, actually.”

“Nice,” Georgie says, sipping her tea. “You a Senior Researcher, then, or whatever they call it?”

“No, I,” Jon’s lips quirk into a tight smile. “I’m actually Head Archivist?”

Georgie’s eyebrows go up. “Huh,” she says.

“I was surprised as well,” Jon says. “I don’t exactly- have much experience. In the field.”

“Do you have any idea what you’re doing?” Georgie asks, amused.

Jon bristles. “Yes,” they reply tersely. “I- I’ve done some research, on it, and there’s- Sasha, in my team, she’s very helpful, and-“

“Relax,” Georgie says, holding her hands up. “Not attacking you. I’m sure you’re doing a great job.”

Jon’s lips press together. They play with the Admiral’s paw, pressing on his toe beans. His claws slide in and out when Jon presses. He’s purring his heart out. “I haven’t,” they say, voice still stilted. “That is, I’m not. Out. To anyone at work.”

“OK,” Georgie says, pulling her legs up onto the sofa. Her feet nudge against Jon’s side. “How is that?”

“It's shit,” Jon’s mouth says, and they flinch. Their shoulders curl inward. “I mean, well. It’s not‐ it… it’s a good job. I just- I don’t know.”

“Hm.” Georgie’s eyes narrow over her tea. “Is there- an LGBT group? Any kind of-“

Jon laughs, bitter. “My boss is so sexist he hired a man with _zero_ experience over a perfectly capable woman.”

Georgie frowns. “You’re not a man. Right?”

Jon shrugs.

“No, you- You said, in uni, you’re a guy, but you don’t like it when people call you a man.” Georgie insists. “Has- Am I wrong? Have you changed your mind on that label, or-”

“It’s not like it _matters_ ,” Jon snaps. “I don’t- I can’t _do anything_ about it, I can’t- I should just give up on the whole thing.”

“Whoa,” Georgie says, eyebrows shooting up. “Slow down a second there.”

Jon presses their mouth closed. They reach forward stiffly, picking up their cup of tea.

“Is that how you actually feel?” Georgie asks. “Do you want to be a guy, all the time?”

Jon lifts a shoulder. Lets it drop. “It would be easier if I could. If I was,” they grimace, but say it anyway, “Normal. Binary, like a good trans guy, like-”

“Jon, there’s nothing wrong with you,” Georgie says immediately, like Jon knew she would. “There’s no such thing as a _good trans guy._ You know that, right?”

“Yes,” Jon says, “But...“ they trail off, not sure how they were going to end the sentence. What’s wrong is something that’s wrong with everyone else, not with them. They do know that. But it _feels_ like it’s something wrong with them. They breathe, in and out. In and out. 

“It’s hard. When I’m the only one who knows. About me” they say eventually.

Georgie takes a sip of her tea, thinking. “Is there anyone you think you could talk to about this stuff? _”_ she asks. “There has to be _one_ other person in the building who sees the finer side of life. You sound like you need support, and you’re not getting it.”

Jon stares at their mug of tea. They think about Tim’s socks. “There might be someone,” they say.

“Well, start with them,” Georgie says, poking them with her toes. “One person can make a lot of difference.” 

Jon grunts. In their lap, the Admiral rolls over, pushing against their hand for more attention. They oblige, burying their hand in his fur.

“Now.” Georgie says decisively, “We should get down to business.”

Jon glances up from the Admiral questioningly.

Georgie grins. “Shopping,” she says, with a trill.

They shop online, falling back into a comfortable rhythm. There are a very nice pair of shoes on offer, Jon’s size, that Georgie spots, and she whoops as they click Purchase. And it’s done. Jon will have them in 2 to 3 working days.

They give the Admiral a very good scratch on the neck before they leave. Georgie wraps her arms around them, tight, and they lean into her. “It’s miserable, being on your own.” she says, resting her chin on top of their head. “Promise you’ll try?”

“I’ll try,” Jon says.

It’s easier said than done. The next day Jon’s still a they. They come in early, duck into their office. Think about their promise.

Tim is bisexual. He’s open about it. The Institute isn’t… Tim gets looks, sometimes. Murmurs, behind his back. He acts as if he doesn’t notice them. 

Tim is Jon’s friend, they think. They’ve never been good at telling, with that sort of thing. He’s certainly the coworker they’re closest to. He’s the sensible choice.

But there’s just no chance, really. Tim is never alone, and always loud, and- Jon worries about it. They worry so much they accidently chew through the end of their pen.

They’re in the tiny Archives bathroom, washing ink out of their mouth, when Tim walks in.

“Hey boss,” he says cheerfully.

Jon spits black saliva into the sink, looking up. “Tim,” they say. They don’t say anything else.

Tim saunters over to the sink beside Jon, flicking the water on. “Just going out for lunch,” he says, smiling. “Want to come join?”

Jon has a packed lunch. It’s one he brought in for himself a couple of days ago, and he’s been reminding himself to actually eat it before it goes off for most of the week. “No, thank you,” they say.

Tim grabs the bar soap, shrugging. “Alright.” He goes back to scrubbing.

This is the time. If Jon was going to say anything- Tim is here, and there’s no one around. It’s the perfect time. Jon glances at Tim in the mirror, and opens their mouth, and- Their mouth won’t open. The words won’t come out.

“Oh, by the way,” Tim says, reaching over for a paper towel, “Thanks for that link, just what I needed. Can’t wait until Friday.”

Jon’s jaw unsticks. “No problem,” they croak.

Tim glances over. “You OK, boss?” he asks.

“Fine,” Jon’s mouth says.

Tim’s eyebrows go up. “Alright,” he says. “If you say so.” He walks over to the door, throwing his crumpled paper towel into the bin. He gets it in one shot, pumping his fist.

He’s opening the door. This is Jon’s _chance,_ they have to _say something,_ they _promised-_

The door closes behind Tim.

Jon buries their face in their hands for a moment. There’s still ink on their tongue, bitter. They sigh, spitting in the sink again.

An indeterminate stretch of time passes, spent pouring over the latest batch of fake tales of terror. People can be _very_ creative. Then Jon looks up, and the light outside his office is off, and he realises it’s 10 in the evening.

They head home, still thinking about the statement. Nonsense, all of them. There’s no _logic,_ barely any sense to most of them.

 _There’s no sense to a door in a book opening to a spider’s lair_ , something in the back of their head says, and they squish the thought with extreme prejudice.

They don’t sleep well.

The next morning, Martin knocks on their office door. They know it’s Martin because Martin is the only one who bothers to knock. “Come in,” they say.

Martin opens the door, attention focused on the mug in his hands. “Thought you might like some tea,” he says, with a tentative smile.

“Yes, thank you,” Jon says, reaching out to take the mug. Maybe the only thing Martin can do well around the office is make tea.

Martin hands it over with a smile, and it’s only as Jon takes it that they notice the pin tucked onto Martin’s warm yellow jumper. It’s small, easy to overlook. It’s rectangular, and coloured in blue, pink, and white.

“Jon?” Martin says, and Jon realises they’ve frozen, mug hovering halfway to their desk. They rip their eyes away from the pin, lower the mug to their desk.

They look down at their tea. It’s that perfect colour, light brown but not _too_ light. The right amount of milk. “Thank you,” they say again, glancing up.

Martin’s lip twists. “Yeah,” he says. His arms are folded.

He walks over to the door, hand on the handle, then hesitates. Turns back. For once, he isn’t blushing. “Do you have a problem with this?” he asks, blunt. He grabs own collar, shoving the badge forward.

Jon’s eyes widen. “What? No, of course-“

“Just,” Martin continues, stalwart, “You were staring, kinda, and people who stare-“

“I’m trans too,” Jon blurts out, then their mouth slams shut.

Martin doesn’t say anything for a short while. Jon stares fixedly at their shelves. They need reorganising.

“Oh,” Martin says, finally, single syllable loaded with emotion, and Jon flinches. “Sorry, that just- I didn’t expect that.”

Jon frowns down at their desk. Cups their hands possessively around their tea. “Sorry,” they say, defensive.

“No, I didn’t mean…“ Martin steps back into the middle of the room, carefully moves a stack of files off the visitor’s chair. Sits down. “Maybe we should start again,” he says.

Jon glances up. “No dogs this time,” they joke, but it comes out flat, and Martin winces. Jon looks down again.

Martin takes a deep breath in. “Hi, I’m Martin. I’m a proud trans man, and my pronouns are he/him,” he says.

Jon’s fingernail clinks against the ceramic mug handle. “Hi, I’m Jon,” they parrot. The mug has a faded picture of a kitten on it. “I don’t like labels very much. My pronouns are…” They hesitate. Glance up. Martin is listening, patient. His face is open. “They/them,” Jon finishes.

“OK,” Martin says. “Thank you for telling me that.”

Jon lifts one shoulder. Lets it drop. “That’s just- Today,” they say, wanting to just get it all out. “I don’t- it changes.”

“Alright,” Martin says. His voice is very calm. He’s not red at all. “I, um. I help run a support group. All sorts of people, uh.” He shrugs. “I’m used to changing pronouns. It’s not a big deal.”

“You- run a support group,” Jon echoes, looking up. It’s not- If they were asked what they thought Martin Blackwood did in his spare time, organising events was not what they would’ve gone for.

Martin shrugs again. “Yeah. I do. For trans people. We meet up on Tuesdays and Thursdays, after work. Maybe, uh.” Martin hesitates. Rubs the back of his neck. “If you wanted, you could come along sometime.”

“That… that sounds nice,” Jon says. He means it.

Martin looks at them for a long moment. “Yeah,” he says.

Jon’s still clutching the tea like a lifeline, they realise. They abruptly look down at their desk, putting it down. The liquid sloshes, but doesn’t spill. 

Martin jolts. “I should- you must have work to do,” he says, and he’s blushing a little again. “I’ll just- I’ll let you get on with it.” He pushes to his feet.

“Could you-“ Jon blurts, “Um. Tim and Sasha don’t- don’t know.”

Martin’s nods. “I won’t tell them.”

Jon’s shoulders relax. “Thank you,” they say.

Martin shrugs. “No worries.” He pauses, hand on the door. “They’d both- They’d be good about it. If you wanted to tell them.” He smiles, nervous. “Tim was saying- about the thing on Friday, dressing up, Tim was kinda- asking if I would, uh, wear feminine things, and I- I told him, about me, and he was really good. And Sasha, she- she recognised my pin as well, said it looked great, so- Uh. Just, they’d be supportive. If you wanted to tell them.”

“Right,” Jon says. They look down at their tea.

“Right,” Martin says. “Well, uh. Enjoy your tea?” He winces.

“I will,” Jon says, honestly.

Martin smiles, and leaves.

Jon takes a sip of tea. It’s still a little too hot, and they blow across the top, ripples cascading across the mug.

It tastes nice.

Once they’re home, they text Georgie. _I did it._

They get three of those cat emojis back, the one with hearts for eyes. They think that’s a positive response.

_Did your shoes arrive?_

Jon hasn’t checked. They grab their keys, slipping out of their apartment and down the stairs to the mailboxes. There are a couple of thin brown boxes, but none of them have their name. There’s a little red slip in his mailbox, and they sigh.

There’s a date. Their name. Please collect your package from your nearest delivery centre as soon as possible, and an address.

Great.

The next morning, Jon’s back to he, and he doesn’t walk straight to the Tube. He turns left, squinting at his phone, and finds the post office. There’s a queue outside. He waits, face tucked into his scarf, and, once he’s at the front, wordlessly shoves the little slip at the sour-faced woman staffing the little office. She grunts, stands, and walks away.

Jon glances at his watch. He’s going to be late for work. He tucks his hands into his pockets.

The woman comes back, a plain box wrapped in brown paper in her hands. She hands it to him, and he takes it. “Thanks,” he says gruffly. She flicks her eyes to the next customer.

He tucks the box under his arm, and walks to the Tube. Gets into work.

The first thing he sees is Rosie, walking out from behind her desk to point someone down the hall- a statement giver, judging from their drawn face. She’s taller than usual.

Oh. It’s Friday.

“Morning, Jon,” Rosie tells him, smiling. She’s wearing shiny black pumps, with a moderate heel. More than enough to make Jon look up.

“Yes,” he says back. “Nice um. Shoes.”

Rosie looks down, twisting her foot to show them off. “Thank you! I’ve been waiting for an excuse to bust these out.”

The box under Jon’s arm feels heavier than it is. He nods at her, clearing his throat, and walks on. Down the stairs.

The Archives are empty. Jon relaxes. He stows the box in his office, dumping his bag, and gets started.

He has an email from Elias, a group thing to all the department heads. _I’m looking forward to our meeting today,_ it starts.

Oh. Oh god.

The meeting today. The one with all the department heads, and Elias, and he asks them all about what they’ve done over the month. It’s hideous, and Jon _always_ forgets about it, and-

He grabs a piece of paper, a pen, almost knocking his pen-pot off the desk. His mind goes blank. What did they do this month? Did they do anything different from last month? He- He doesn’t think so. Is that bad?

There’s a knock on his office door. “Yes,” Jon says, loud enough to carry and faintly panicked.

Martin comes in, carrying tea. He’s wearing- a onesie, Jon thinks that’s the word. It’s white, but has black patches. There’s a little bell at the neck, which jingles as Martin moves. Martin turns around to close the door, and Jon sees that the onesie has a hood, and the hood has little stuffed horns sewn in. It is… extremely cute. Jon feels his heart rate slow down.

“Tea!” Martin says, face already red.

“Yes, thank you,” Jon says, leaning forward to examine Martin’s clothing more.

Martin places the mug he’s holding onto Jon’s desk. “There,” he says. “Oh, and-“ He glances quickly at the door. His voice lowers. “Pronoun check?”

Jon blinks at him. A lump forms in his throat, and he swallows around it. “He/him.”

“Sure!” Martin gives him a thumbs up, then jumps as the bell around his throat jingles.

“What, uh. Where did you find your…” Jon gestures at Martin.

Martin laughs a little, rubs his head. The bell jingles. His cheeks are red again. “Oh, an online shop. Uh. I’ve had it for a while, and Tim convinced me to do _something._ He’s- well. Have you seen Tim today?”

“No,” Jon says, his throat tightening slightly. “I haven’t.”

“He can’t really walk,” Martin tells him, smiling. “I don’t think he has much experience in heels.”

“Hm.” Jon reaches out, picks up the mug. “Thank you. For the tea.”

“You’re welcome,” Martin replies, voice soft. He slips out of the office, leaving the door ajar.

Jon feels unsettled. By something. He is for some reason very aware of the box he’d picked up this morning, sitting innocently on the floor under his coat.

He can’t.

But- _Tim_ can- And Martin had said-

Jon shakes off the thoughts. He needs to focus. There’s work to do. He has a meeting.

He manages to get a couple of points down over the next few hours. They’ve digitised almost 50 cases, with a couple more on tape, so that’s _something._

Another email from Elias pings into his inbox, and he clicks on it, desperately hoping for a cancellation.

It’s about the protest.

It’s to everyone in the Institute. Elias praises the effort put forth by the women of the Institute. _They look wonderful,_ he says _and for such a good cause! We support equality in all forms here, and today has been an excellent example of the Institute’s spirit of acceptance._

There’s no mention of a change in the dress code. There’s no mention of any action being taken at all. There’s _nothing_ in the email about the fact that the whole protest is a reaction to Elias’ own actions, that _he_ is what they are protesting.

_They look wonderful._

Jon stands up from his desk. He walks out into the Archives proper. “Did you see-“ he starts, then he stops.

Tim is wearing a hot pink cocktail dress that is far too small for him, the silk straining across his pectorals. The neckline is very low. He’s perched on the corner of Sasha’s desk, leaning down so she can do his makeup.

“Boss!” he cries, straightening up and spreading his arms. He almost falls over. He’s wearing hot pink stilettos. “Whatdaya think?”

“You are going to break those shoes,” Jon says, momentarily distracted. “And also your ankles.”

Sasha snorts. She has an eyeshadow brush poised like a pencil in her hand. She’s wearing a light summer dress, patterned with oranges, in defiance of the cold weather. Her hair is curled into an elaborate updo. “That’s what I told him.”

“A small price to pay for equality,” Tim states dramatically, and they’re at it again.

Martin shakes his head, smiling from his desk, and the little bell jingles. Jon gives him a hesitant smile back. He drifts over to Sasha’s desk, ignoring the bickering.

She has her palettes open, eyeshadow in red and yellow and purple, glitter, powders, blush. Jon’s eye catches on a shade of gold, slightly orange, glimmering.

He has an idea. It’s… not a _good_ idea. But.

“Sasha,” Jon says slowly, still looking at the palettes. His meeting is in half an hour. He might just have gone mad. “Would you mind if I borrowed some of these?”

There’s silence for a moment. Then Sasha starts grinning. “Of course!” she says, almost giddy. “I can- I mean, I could do your-“

Jon casually picks up a little squeezable tube from the accessories scattered over Sasha’s desk. “No need.” He- hmm. _They_ squeeze some of the moisturizer onto their palm, rubbing it around their hands, then over their face. They’ve never been a fan of the texture, but, well. Their skin is in an appalling condition.

Sasha doesn’t have concealer or foundation in Jon’s shade- to be fair, neither do most highstreet makeup shops- so they go straight for the eyeshadow. The gold is practically untouched. Sasha hands them the brush.

Tim leans in, grinning like The Cheshire Cat. “This is the best day of my life,” he announces. “Boss, are you- Do you-“

Jon closes one eye, trying not to squint as they angle the mirror in the top of the palette. The gold goes on well. The familiar motion of the brush against their eyelid is soothing. Their heart is still pounding in their chest, of course, but at least their hands are steady. “Yes, Tim?”

“Do you want some eyeliner?” Sasha asks eagerly, chin on one hand as she offers them a thin pencil. 

“Yes, thank you.” Jon checks their eyeshadow, nods to themself, and exchanges the brush with Sasha’s eyeliner. Plain black, unfortunately, but it’ll do. They should try and find that pure white eyeliner they used to have. They bring the mirror closer, carefully drawing along their lashline.

“Have you done drag, boss?” Tim bursts out, and Jon almost takes their own eye out.

“Tim,” Martin warns, “You can’t just-“

“I suppose the first decade or two of my life could be considered as drag,” Jon muses, carefully rounding out their eyebrows. They hope no one else notices how they might be about to faint. “And with those times in university… well. I suppose the answer has to be yes.” They snap the palette shut, lifting their chin to meet Tim’s eyes. 

“Awesome” Tim says, fervent. “You look great, boss, I’m sure you killed it.” Jon smiles. 

“Do you have any lipstick?” Jon asks Sasha, forcing their tone to be casual. Martin almost chokes on his tea.

“ _Yes_ ,” Sasha says, grinning maniacally. “Yes, I do.”

Sasha has four lipsticks. A well-used natural shade, a dainty pink, a bright, lucious crimson, and, slightly incongruously, a bright yellow. Jon picks up the yellow. It’ll match their eyeliner.

They run it carefully around their lips, watching for their stubble. It’s muscle memory, familiar and soothing and _right_. Open their mouth wide, to get the corners. Overdraw slightly on their cupid’s bow. They rub their lips together, evening out the colour, and suddenly realise the room has fallen silent.

Martin, Tim, and Sasha are all staring at them.

Jon recaps the lipstick, pushing down the lump in their throat. They _want_ to be looked at. That’s the _point._ “Well,” they say. “Wouldn’t want to be late.”

“Late?“ Tim starts. He swallows. He keeps glancing down at Jon’s lips. “Late for what?”

“My meeting with Elias,” Jon says. They put the lipstick back on Sasha’s desk. “And the other department heads. Monthly thing.”

Sasha makes a high-pitched sound of pure glee. 

“Oh,” Jon says, “I almost forgot.” They walk back over to their office, and retrieve the box, opening it carefully.

The heels inside are sunflower yellow. Almost exactly the colour of the lipstick, actually, and Jon smiles at the lucky coincidence. They’re not too high, not too thin, but more than enough to make an impact.

Jon slips off their normal work shoes, thankful they’re wearing plain black socks, and slips into the heels. They take off their tie, as well, and briskly roll their shirtsleeves up three times. Their vest is serviceable. They’re not going to take off their binder. They wish they had a skirt, but they don’t. Their armour is complete enough without one, they hope. They feel so much better already. Their hair- they can’t really do much with it, short as it is, but they muss it up a little. They should grow it out again. They pick up their notes on this month from their desk, tucking them under their arm like the butt of a lance.

Jon walks back out into the Archives. Their assistants look up. They don’t stop, moving through the desks, head held high.

“Knock ‘em dead, boss!” Tim says as they pass.

Sasha puts her fingers to her mouth and wolf-whistles.

“You look great,” Martin says, eyes crinkling. Jon stops by his desk.

“Um,” they start. Then they square their shoulders, and say, all in a rush, loud enough for Tim and Sasha to hear, “I think I’ll be going by they/them for the rest of the day. Just. So you know.”

Martin gives him a big smile. “Of course,” he says.

“And- the details of that, that group you were-“

“I can put a flyer on your desk,” Martin says, and Jon nods jerkily, and doesn’t look to see Tim and Sasha’s reaction, and walks on.

They stop at the door to the rest of the Institute. Just for a moment.

It’s big. This. What they’re doing. It’s- it’s big. They can’t really go back from it.

But. It’s right. Right for them, and right for- for the woman from the library, Amanda O’Reilly. Elias shouldn’t be able to ignore this. Jon can make a _point,_ one that needs to be made. For Amanda, and Rosie, and Sasha, and all the other women who work for this bloody Institute, and- 

And for them, too. They should be able to wear what they want. They should be able to wear what they want, and not have to _worry_ about it, and feel _good_ about what they look like. 

Jon takes a deep breath, squares their shoulders, opens the door, and walks through.

**Author's Note:**

> hope you liked the fic! the tumblr post for it is over [ here, ](https://ajkal2.tumblr.com/post/642549275111342080/same-as-it-ever-was) go give it a reblog if you'd like :D


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